


mask to mask

by joeri



Series: commissions [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Relationship Study, sorta..., sylvain bottoms ofc lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/joeri
Summary: And this, Sylvain knows. Hubert is the crow that sat on Dimitri’s roof every morning one summer. Him and his family stormed across the skies the day that his friends lost it all. Here Sylvain is, making a double backed beast with him as if that will keep him at bay, charm him in some way.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Series: commissions [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547167
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	mask to mask

**Author's Note:**

> i been busy and mostly writing personal stuff but heres a itty bitty thing i wrote.

Every time that Sylvain finds the two of them entangled like this, he recalls how much he’s in need of a savior—not something with a halo or a set of soft, plushy palms. No, a savior to envelope his eyes, blind him from the truth, _distract_ him for a while. Surely _here_ , that much is doable. After all, Sylvain is far from the arms of an angel. Knowing what is soon to befall Garreg Mach, the frigid, fertile lands of Faerghus that he once called his home, the vast landscape of Fodlan as his classmates all know it… _ah_ , it’s easier instead to just do this: twist his back up all pliant and slow into his devil’s well-calloused hands.

Hubert holds him like a gift he’s eager to return.

There’s too much belligerence, performative or not, in every gesture leveled against his desperate body. Each time Sylvain is batting a careful eye, sliding his fingers to swipe the hair from his eyes, gawking backwards at Hubert, he’s almost surely punished by the way the other man thunders his digits deeper still inside him. It somewhat lacks the methodical gait held in his every move. Sylvain thinks to himself—the rim of his asshole loosening around Hubert’s knuckles— _a slip of the mask?_

He huffs up a breath, thoroughly humbled. “H-hey, that’s startin’ to feel sorta good.” He whispers with tongue in cheek, as if Hubert cares for how he’s _feeling._

“That would certainly not be my intention,” the other man croons glumly, taking to the task of opening up Sylvain much like a cautious baker would _not_ handle a pie. “You’re awfully tight for… _nngh…_ ”

Grunting as he gives a corkscrew of the fingers, Hubert lets his voice trail off. It’s clear enough what he means to say. This has Sylvain chuckling. He gives a wiggle of his behind in clear defiance of Hubert’s motions.

“Be as rough as you need to be,” he says, avoiding the topic of why he’s so tense in his body.

Why he can’t seem to look his reflection in the eye. Why the lance in the corner of his bedroom wiggles at night. Why he hasn’t been able to meet Dimitri for lunch.

Why he comes back here to the bed of a corvid.

Sylvain knows what they say about crows that sit on roof shingles, damning the residents to pick their weakest link. He wonders sometimes why he put himself here in the Black Eagles.

_“Feel free to leave,”_ Edelgard had said when Sylvain had the horrible misfortune of catching wind of their plans. _“If you want to be dealt with, of course,”_ contended Hubert. Because, of course. Sylvain couldn’t run now.

And maybe that’s why Hubert is here, just to keep him placated. That’s the way to get Sylvain Gautier to stay, isn’t it? _Fuck him real good._ That’ll ensure Edelgard can have her cake and eat it too. Of course. This is all in her service, or at least Sylvain is sure that’s what he’d say if he were to ask the man.

But Sylvain won’t ask the man.

Sylvain will prostrate himself and bend up his back into every thrust, awaiting Hubert to line himself up with his hole and show him why he’s even still alive. For that. For _this._ And it’s for _this_ that he will allow everyone he knows to die.

“I don’t suppose you want to be more of a body tonight?”

The question slides right through Sylvain’s head. The meaning doesn’t stick, and he glances over his shoulder, the question left unasked.

“This is the most lifeless I’ve seen you,” says Hubert. “If I wanted to fuck a warm, unmoving hole there are plenty of easier things.”

“Name one,” Sylvain says in jest.

“A hot cross bun,” responds Hubert, surprisingly able to humor the other man with this much annoyance in his tone. “What are you thinking?” Hubert says, less like a question and more like a command.

“I’m thinking about how fat your dick is,” spits Sylvain, smirking sly and slow. “And how _all_ my friends are going to die.”

And this, Sylvain knows. Hubert is the crow that sat on Dimitri’s roof every morning one summer. Him and his family stormed across the skies the day that his friends lost it all. Here Sylvain is, making a double backed beast with him as if that will keep him at bay, charm him in some way.

Hubert scoffs, smiling, _disgusted_ by the levity. His eyes are knife sharp when he casts them down on either side of Sylvain, never truly looking _at_ him but _through_ him.

“Your life is a misery. It will remain so until a new world is made. Didn’t you want someone to look at you and not see a marking? A shape? A symbol?”

Sylvain takes a deep breath, wincing as Hubert sinks himself down. With every inch, Sylvain squeezes his fist around his own cock even tighter. Hubert bottoms out. Sylvain feels the breadth of Hubert’s hips between his thighs and he trembles at the strain. He gasps and he gazes up at him, stuttering out, “is th-that what you see?”

Only one eye glances back and its iris is dark as cherry pits. Watchful and heeding, Sylvain is attentive to the way Hubert’s lip yanks up slightly—a visual stumble in his flinty disposition. Then he says, “I see a man with the potential to be more than cannon fodder.”

Hubert rolls back his hips, his muscles doing the bare minimum beneath his flesh as he whispers, “which is more than you’d be in service to your king.”

Then he thrusts back in, taking roost in his heart.


End file.
